


The Sailors in Galway

by Mrs_SimonTam_PHD



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Foreign Languages, Gaelic/Irish Language, Implied Top!Ketch, Kilts, Language Kink, M/M, Mentions of sexual relations, Mick in a Kilt, Sailor Mick, Sailors au, Soldier!Ketch, accent kink, implied bottom!Mick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25106170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD/pseuds/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD
Summary: Having shore leave in Galway gives Ketch a new thing to think about when it comes to Mick.
Relationships: Mick Davies/Arthur Ketch
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	The Sailors in Galway

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Adam Fergus's fault, as during the Pay What You Can StageIt, someone asked him if he knew Irish and he just started speaking in that language and it would. Not. Leave. My. Brain. And then, of course... kilts. 
> 
> Special thanks to @krystal-buckys-girl for helping me with the Irish!!

“We’ll be in Galway soon!” Captain Hess announced. “You’ll get two days of shore leave, but then we leave for India! That’s with or without you!” 

There were whoops and cheers from all around  _ The British Letters _ , but none were as loud or as joyous as the cry from the crow’s nest. Arthur Ketch looked up to see their sole Irish sailor, Michael “Mick” Davies, spinning around the mast and chattering excitedly. Ketch shook his head and continued to sharpen his knife, a small smile on his face. He could hear his friend chattering in Irish, the syllables falling off of his lips like a fine gin. 

Ketch tilted his face up to the sky and smiled. They had good winds and a break from the sun with some cloud cover. He wished that they could be stopping in London for their brief leave, but seeing his best friend being so happy at returning home was just as good. 

Ketch smiled as Mick slipped into their quarters that night. “Excited to be returning to Ireland?” he asked softly. 

“You have no idea, Art,” Mick said. “I only hope that I can remember the reels and jigs of my youth.” 

Ketch laughed. “I’m sure that you will,” he said. “What are you trying to do, impress the ladies?” 

“‘Course,” Mick scoffed, toeing off his boots and taking off his shirt. Ketch let his eyes roam appreciatively over the sailor’s tanned and built chest. “I mean, I’m not looking to settle down just yet, but bloody hell, Art. Lasses are pretty.” 

“What, is my touch no longer good enough for you?” Ketch teased as his fingers skimmed along the waistband of Mick’s trousers.

“Oh,  _ a ghrà _ ,” Mick purred, and Ketch couldn’t repress the shiver at hearing Mick’s native language roll off of his tongue. “You’re the only person I love. You know that, my soldier.” 

“Mmm, I love hearing your voice when you speak in that beautiful language,” Ketch murmured, leaning in for a kiss. 

Mick hummed as he accepted the kiss. “Do you want me to speak Irish to you tonight, Art? Give you the full Irish treatment?” 

“Always,” Ketch said with a groan. “Please?” 

“Mmm,  _ mo shaighdear làidir, _ ” Mick hummed. 

Ketch’s brain shut off as it usually did when Mick spoke in Irish. After three years of sailing alongside the Irishman and two years of sharing a cabin with him, he’s learned quite a bit of the language. Pronouncing it was an entirely different matter, as of course was reading and writing it, but he knows what’s being said. 

So he listened to the soft praises of his body, the quiet exclamations of need and want, the gentle orders that Ketch was more than willing to do for his lover. And he couldn’t help but marvel at his good fortune as Mick rode him, his body smoothly rocking and that deep, sinful voice telling him what to do in a language that he didn’t know before but learned while falling in love.

Two days later, Mick excitedly called  _ GALWAY HO  _ from the crow’s nest. Ketch sheathed his knife into his boot and straightened as Captain Hess reiterated that they could spend two nights in Galway, but that they were leaving with the tide, and reminded them to be good people of superb moral character. Ketch returned to his quarters to change, grab his wages, and to snatch up the letters that he wrote to his twin in London. He had finished dressing and was packing the things he needed as Mick entered. 

“I just need to use the head real quick and grab a thing or two,” Mick said, kissing Ketch’s cheek. 

“Alright, I’m going to go grab my sword from the armory and get onto land,” Ketch replied, turning his head and kissing Mick’s cheek in return. “I’ll wait for you on the dock.” 

“You better,  _ mo shaighdear làidir, _ ” Mick teased playfully as he flitted off to use the head. Ketch shook his head in amusement and headed up to the amory. He retrieved his sword and headed up to the deck. Once there, he tied it off onto his belt and headed out onto the docks. 

As he waited for Mick, leaning against a post, several beautiful women of Galway stop and look at him, chattering excitedly. Arthur Ketch  _ knew  _ that he had that sort of effect on both men and women, especially when he was wearing black boots, a pair of white trousers, a cream colored undershirt and a dark blue vest, suntanned skin on display, his dark hair tousled slightly from the sea, and a sword on his hip. A dressed down soldier. 

“Well,  _ a run moi chroi, _ ” Mick said as he appeared out of Ketch’s line of vision, “shall I show you the sights and sounds of Galway?” 

Ketch turned to address his friend…. And his brain instantly short circuited.

_ Mick was wearing a kilt.  _

It was colored in a navy blue, forest green, and a sort of golden color in a diagonal plaid pattern. His shirt was very close to matching the thin gold stripes in the kilt and opened to reveal his chest, while also wearing his usual black boots. 

“Is everything alright, love?” Mick asked all too innocently.  _ Cocky bastard.  _

“Yes,” Ketch managed to say. He cleared his throat. “Mick, please tell me that you’re wearing pants under that?” 

Mick laughed warmly and wrapped an arm around Ketch’s shoulders. “Don’t be silly,  _ a stór mo chroí, _ ” he said as they started to walk off the docks and into the city itself. “If I wore pants under this, it’d be a skirt, not a kilt.” 

Ketch groaned. “Mick, love, you’re going to be the death of me,” he said as they walked. 

“Mmm, good,” Mick said. “Perhaps tonight I’ll let you shag me whilst I wear nothing but the kilt.” 

“Why is there a perhaps there?” Ketch pouted as they made their way to the messenger that would send their letters and perhaps they’ll receive some of their own. 

“Well, it depends on if you’re a good lad for me,  _ mo shaighdear làidir _ ,” Mick laughed. 

They then proceeded to run their errands, they shopped around, and the entire time, from the moment that they stepped into the messenger’s office to when they finally fell asleep in their bed at the pub, Mick never stopped speaking in Irish, not even when English would’ve served him better. Ketch didn’t mind it one bit. His friend and lover was happy, and since it had been a long time since Mick had been in his homeland, Ketch reveled in it. 

He didn’t even feel jealous as he watched Mick dance with beautiful Irish women, sing bawdy songs to them to watch them blush and giggle. He relaxed in the sailor’s happiness, smiling down at the claddagh ring adorning his finger. He smiled at the heart pointing away from him to indicate that he was taken. 

And as they rose with the dawn to charm Galway for one day more, Arthur Ketch is certain that the memory of Mick’s hips swiveling around and the rough kiss of wool on his thighs would be with him forever more. 

**Author's Note:**

> Irish Translations: 
> 
> mo shaighdear làidir: My Strong Soldier  
> a ghrà: my love  
> a run moi chroi: my heart's beloved  
> a stór mo chroí: my heart's treasure
> 
> Tumblr: @luciba-is-dancing-in-hell
> 
> Twitter: @Alendra_Dragon
> 
> Comments and Kudos are Shiny!!


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